


Hope In A Box

by DangerousCommieSubversive



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curse Breaking, F/M, Hellhounds, Resurrection, Time Loop, Time Travel, a Groundhog Day time loop to be specific
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 02:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14684684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/DangerousCommieSubversive
Summary: Sam and Dean find an especially weird curse box, and are interrupted in the act of taking it to someone who might be able to figure out what the hell's up with it when they run into an old friend--one who should definitely be dead.





	Hope In A Box

**Author's Note:**

  * For [red_b_rackham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_b_rackham/gifts).



> Written for the 2017 Fndom Trumps Hate auction, and it took me _over a year,_ but I feel like it turned out pretty well for all of that. Have fun!

The curse box was very small, and very old. Ancient, in fact; it seemed strange that the leather hinges hadn’t rotted away long ago, or _would_ have seemed strange if the whole thing hadn’t been crawling with sigils. It was tied shut with a leather thong in a complex knot, and it fit perfectly in the palm of Sam’s hand—and while his hands weren’t _small_ by any description, they still made the little thing look _tiny._

He was just _staring_ at it, a heart-in-the-mouth look on his face. “It’s beautiful.”

Dean frowned. “That thing? Just looks old to me.”

“No, it—it feels _warm._ But _good_ warm. Here, hold it.”

Puzzled, Dean took the curse box from his brother and peered at it. It fit perfectly in his hand, just like it had fit into Sam’s. “Huh. You’re right. It’s…it feels kinda like a puppy. Like, it’s sorta happy.”

“Right?”

“So this is probably _crazy_ evil, right?”

“Oh, definitely.”

“What _alphabet_ is this?”

“I don’t _know_ , Dean. Or…” Sam squinted at it. “Fuck, I think it might be _Linear B._ This thing belongs in a _museum._ ”

“What the fuck is Linear B?”

“Old.”

“I _guessed_ that, asshole.”

“It’s Cretan. See, this is why I didn’t just say that before, don’t laugh. Crete, the island?” Sam looked at his brother’s blank expression and sighed. “Greece. It’s from Greece.”

 

* * *

 

 _“So you found an ancient Greek curse box?”_ Bobby sounded irritable and worried, which was nothing new. _“And it’s warm.”_

“Yeah. Tiny and warm.” Dean hefted the box, comforted somehow by its peculiar weight.

_“Whaddaya mean, tiny? How small? Human heart sized? It makin’ any noise or anything?”_

“Smaller than that. Fits right in my hand.” He lifted it to his ear. “No noise.”

_“You sure? Nothing? No…rhythmic beating?”_

“Pretty sure there ain’t a beating heart in this thing, Bobby.”

_“Yeah, well. Doesn’t hurt to check. Doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard of, who had it?”_

“Some vamp. Guy was a hoarder, his place was a mess. Sam found it.”

 _“Huh.”_ Bobby made a vague, thoughtful noise. _“Well…bring it here, lemme take a look, I can’t tell you a damn thing like this.”_

“Sure, see you soon. Hey, Sammy!”

Handing over the little box was hard, but Sam cradled it in his lap like a child, so that was all right.

 

* * *

 

Midday came and went, lunch at a small-town diner with mediocre pie and the road stretching out like it always did.

( _she was running and afraid, breathless, achy, bloody and muddy and mindless with adrenaline_ )

Sam dozed in the passenger seat with the box in his lap, but woke with a jolt when Dean pulled into the gas station. “Wha…”

“Tank’s low. Get me some chips or something.”

“Christ, I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

“Well, don’t do it in here.”

Sam rolled his eyes and headed into the convenience store, leaving the curse box behind on the seat of the car.

( _running and more running, no stopping, but there was a beacon, suddenly. a light, a knowledge— **have hope, have hope, have hope** and she hadn’t felt anything but fear in **so long**_ )

Dean scowled at the pump as the numbers slowly rose. _That_ was something he wished Dad had taught him more about. Fuckin’ gas prices. There had to be a way to jimmy a pump, it’d save him at least a few hundred a month.

Whatever hit him on the back of the head took him completely by surprise.

 

* * *

 

Sam looked up with a sudden sense of foreboding and saw the car peeling out of the gas station lot and his brother unconscious on the ground. “Dean!”

 

* * *

 

“I can’t _believe_ we had to take a _taxi_ back into this shitty little town.” Dean rubbed at the growing lump on the back of his head and winced. “Think that thing’s ever been cleaned?”

“Dean, it’s the only taxi in town.” Sam shifted from foot to foot, not looking any happier than Dean felt. “I can’t believe someone stole our _car._ I mean, it’s not exactly the kind of car that gets stolen most of the time.”

Dean froze. “And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Sam looked across the town square, frowning, and then choked on his own spit. “Dean…”

“No, Sammy, don’t change the subject, what the hell d’you mean, not the kinda car that gets stolen?”

“Dean, seriously, look over—”

“You saying she’s not the best car you’ve ever seen?”

Sam grabbed his arm. “She’s definitely the best car I’m seeing _right now._ ”

Dean blinked. “Wait, what?”

Sam pointed, and _there she was,_ right across the street, parked outside the so-so diner where they’d gotten lunch barely an hour ago. No damage. No sign that it had been cleared out or anything. Just sitting there, as if they’d parked and then gone for a brief walk.

And— “Wait, the _fuck?_ ”

Visible through the window of the diner was a familiar head of dark hair, the outlines of a well-known but long unseen face.

Sam’s forehead wrinkled. “Is that _Bela?_ I thought she was _dead._ ”

 

* * *

 

She was still sitting when they walked in, the little curse box on the table in front of her, staring at it like someone who’d just woken up and wasn’t sure what was going on. Honestly, she _looked_ like she’d just risen from the grave; there were twigs in her hair, and scratches on her arms and legs, and her clothes were a mess. She didn’t seem to notice them at first, not until they sat down at her table and Dean said, “So why aren’t you dead?”

She looked up at them very slowly, as if it hurt to move, and said, sounding lost, “Hello, boys.”

“Hey, Bela. What’s with the pistol-whipping or whatever? You hit real hard for a dead chick.”

“Yes, I…” She frowned. “I had to. I think. It’s…all rather a blur, really.”

“No, look, whatever you had to do definitely didn’t involve pistol-whipping me and stealing my goddamn car.”

“Well, no, I suppose not.” She actually smiled fleetingly. “But it _was_ fun. No…no, it’s this. I needed this.”

“There you go, you got it.” Sam picked up the curse box, and she let out a little cry of dismay.  “And now you don’t have anymore. What is it? Who’s paying you for it?”

She didn’t look at either of them now, just at the box Sam held. “Nobody. I don’t know. It’s for me, I _need_ it.” One hand grabbed for it, and Sam held it out of reach.

Dean kept rubbing at the back of his head. “Still stuck on the pistol-whipping myself. So if you’re not dead, where’ve you been? Also, are you _sure_ you’re not dead? You _sound_ dead.”

Bela frowned, brow furrowing. “I’ve been…running, I think.”

“Not really surprising, you kinda piss people off.”

“Yes, well, we’re two of a kind there, aren’t we?”

“Suppose you’re right.” He paused. “Look, maybe you should come with us. Not because I’m so into you pistol-whipping me, but like…we found this thing and then you showed up. Bobby’s gonna take a look at it for us, he oughtta take a look at you too. See if whatever’s got you coming back from the dead is connected.”

Sam looked over at him in horror, opening his mouth as if to argue but not saying anything. Another one of those fleeting smiles crossed Bela’s face, though. “That’s very sweet of you. I think…I think maybe that would be good. Maybe I should go with you.” Her gaze drifted back to the box in Sam’s hand. “I feel like I should stay with that, at least. Could I. Could I hold it, do you think?”

Instead of answering her, Sam tossed the box to Dean, who caught it, and then stood up from the table. “If we’re going, we should go. We don’t need a second lunch. Well, _I_ don’t need a second lunch. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Man, _someone’s_ feeling bossy.”

Sam headed for the bathroom, Dean for the car—having grabbed his keys from Bela’s loosely gripping hand—and Bela trailed behind him like a puppy. A dirty, bedraggled, possibly-undead puppy, a what-happened-to-you-and-how-are-you-alive puppy.

“You’re being very kind to me,” she said softly. “I hadn’t expected it.”

“Yeah, well, gotta contain—”

“I hate to do this again.”

She hit him _right_ over the lump from the first time. His last thought before he blacked out was, _Ok, why didn’t I **expect** that?_

 

* * *

 

He woke up—in _his own car_ , in the damn _back seat_ of his own car, curse box on the dash up front. _Bela_ in the driver’s seat, hands white-knuckled on the wheel though they weren’t driving very quickly. She went over a pothole and it almost threw him into the foot well. “What the _hell._ ”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I needed it.”

He peered at the back of her tangled hair. “You apologizing is the creepiest thing that’s happened today.”

“I’m sure it is, I’m not very good at it. Never had much use for it before.” She didn’t look back at him. “I haven’t been dead. I think I’ve been running.”

“Yeah, you said that. Running like a fugitive.”

“ _No._ Like, like a fox before the hunt.” Her shoulders tensed visibly. “With only the forest in front of me and a hound baying at my heels. You ought to see my feet. I don’t know…why I was able to get away at all, really.”

Sitting up was difficult; Dean had never had a migraine before, but if they felt anything like getting cold-cocked twice in an hour, they _had_ to be nasty. The light hurt his eyes. His neck ached. He probably had a concussion or something. “Right, ok. British shit. Foxhunting. You’re kidnapping me _why_ now?”

“Well, the car makes horrible noises—”

“Don’t talk shit about my car.”

“—and also I felt like you ought to be with me. As a gesture of good faith, you know. I’m not _stealing_ your car, I’m just borrowing it, so I can get there more quickly.”

“Right, and you didn’t _pistol-whip_ me, this was just a friendly pat on the back. Wait, get where?”

“I’m…” He could see the corner of her mouth turn down. “I’m not sure. The box. The box knows.”

“You sound crazier every time you talk.”

He settled back onto the seat, wincing again, and for some time they drove in sullen silence. Bela didn’t look at him—or at the box, for that matter. It was probably talking to her or something. Which didn’t seem so bad when he remembered holding it, feeling its comforting warmth against his skin.

Still, though. Being kidnapped was bullshit. She hadn’t even _done_ it right, weren’t kidnappers supposed to tie you up or something?

Seeing the dash clock was what fucked him up. It had been _three hours._ And he was _done_ with this bullshit.

He waited until the road was entirely clear and then lunged into the front of the car, seizing the wheel from Bela and wrenching it over to the side. “Park it.”

The box went flying off the dash, and instead of saying _anything_ to him, instead of even _acknowledging_ that he’d done something, Bela shrieked and dove for it, like it was a kid she was trying to save. She fell across the passenger seat, feet off the pedals as the car whipped off the road.

His forehead hit the dash as they crashed.

 

* * *

 

He woke, dazed, some time later—he couldn’t tell how long. Bela stirred underneath him. “It’s coming…”

The sound was painful. “What? What’s coming?”

She ignored him. “I’m sorry,” she said—to the box in her hands. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t—”

Dean barely heard the snarling before the hound was on them.

 

* * *

 

Bela was running. She had been running for so long.

And, though there had been no variation, no break in the frantic chase, she was suddenly struck with a reeling sense of déjà vu. She knew these woods. She had run them before. Just…just that morning.

She saw the sun high in the sky, felt the burst of warmth and the silent cry of _have hope,_ and said to the breathless stillness of the woods, “How the _hell_ am I still alive?”

The woods had no answer for her.

She _remembered_ dying. She remembered the feel of the steering wheel in her hand and the scent of diner coffee, the Winchester brothers looking at her in mixed suspicion and worry. The weight of Dean Winchester’s unconscious form on top of her. The hell hound’s teeth in her flesh. She remembered the box, and felt again that pulse of _have hope._

If she turned now, the gas station would be close by. She remembered that.

 

* * *

 

The cars at the gas station were the same. As were the prices, and the dull-eyed teen behind the convenience store register, and the spilled red Slurpee drying on the ground, and the mother saying to her crying child, “We’ll be at Gram’s soon.” The Winchester’s car was still parked at Pump Three, Dean Winchester again standing with his back to her as he filled the tank. She reached for her long unloaded gun, knowing—remembering—that if she struck now, she could be away with car and box in moments.

Except that Dean turned around as if he’d heard a startling noise and looked her straight in the eyes.

She froze.

He said, “Bela? Thought you were _dead._ ”

She couldn’t tell him that she’d seen him already. That they’d spoken before. He’d think she was mad, and she wasn’t at all sure that she wasn’t. So all she could manage in reply was, “No. No, I’ve been running. I need your car.”

“You need to maybe put down the gun and back the fuck up, is what you need. Why do you want my car?” He kept squinting at her, like he didn’t quite believe she was real, or perhaps thought he was dreaming. It would be satisfying to think that he dreamed of her.

“I don’t want it, I _need_ it, I need to get. Somewhere.”

“You gotta understand, that’s not really a persuasive argument.”

“If I had a clearer idea of what was going on I _swear_ I’d tell you.” She tossed her empty gun from one hand to the other, seeing the focus with which he watched it move.

He wasn’t going to listen to her. She felt a horrible spike of despair in her heart, drowning out the continuous hum of _have hope, have hope, have hope._ He said, “Look, not that I don’t have sympathy for needing to do crazy shit, but that’s not really gonna cut it.”

The pump clicked off. His car was full. He made the mistake of turning away for the brief moment required to put the nozzle back.

She pulled out her empty gun, hefted it, and struck.

 

* * *

 

Dean woke up sprawled on the gas station asphalt, surrounded by worried onlookers. Sam loomed over him. “Dean, what happened? Did you see who hit you?”

“Fucking _Bela!_ She clocked me again!”

Sam’s forehead wrinkled. “Dean, are…I need to check for a concussion.”

“I’m not concussed.”

“Dean. Bela’s _dead._ And what do you mean _again?_ ”

“Don’t you fucking _remember?_   She’s—” He stopped, wincing as he struggled to his feet, and looked around himself at the gas station and the drying red Slurpee splattered across the asphalt. “Look, uh. Sammy. What day is it?”

 

* * *

 

She didn’t stop at the diner this time. She had the edgy, niggling feeling that she _ought_ to stop and let the Winchesters catch up with her, but that had gone badly last time and if she’d been granted a do-over then she wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Digging in her pockets produced _some_ residual cash from when she’d last been lucid, though, so she did go through a Starbucks drive-through, savoring her first taste of coffee in over a year. The little box sat on the dashboard, and whenever she glanced at it she felt a warm pulse in her heart.

It was so strange to feel hopeful.

Two hours of driving, though, and she knew that she was getting close to wherever it was she was going. The coffee had done its work, though, and finally she conceded to the need to pull the car over and find a spot in the woods where she could relieve herself. She left the curse box in the car, not wanting to risk losing it or getting it dirty.

As she walked back to the car, the hair on the back of her neck rose, and she felt the hellhound’s low growl more than she heard it.

 _I always had a head start before,_ she thought as she hit the ground with its claws digging into her shoulders.

 

* * *

 

She was running.

 

* * *

 

Dean staggered as he got out of the car, hit with a wave of déjà vu, and said, “Ok, what the fuck.”

He knew— _knew_ —that he hadn’t been here a few minutes ago. He’d been back in town, sitting at one of the corner tables at the diner while Sam argued with Bobby on the phone about what they were going to do. There had been coffee, and more depressingly mediocre pie, and a lump rising on his temple. And now he was back at the gas station again, next to his car, for the _third time,_ and any minute now Bela Talbot was going to come pelting out of the goddamn woods and try to pistol-whip him.

He turned around just in time to see her skid to a stop, frozen in the act of reaching for her gun. “If you try to hit me with that thing I’m gonna pop you one, I’ve had just about enough of this crap.”

He was _looping._ That _Groundhog Day_ bullshit, like what Sam had claimed was happening when they’d visited the Mystery Spot, except that he didn’t even get breakfast out of it. Just this same shitty gas station and _fucking Bela,_ standing there looking like a stray cat.

Her eyes had gone wide. “I. Uh. What? Why would I try to hit you?”

“Don’t jerk me around, I know you were gonna try to crack me on the head with that thing and steal my car.”

“I _need_ it. I need the box. Please. It’s important.”

“ _No._ Not until you start talking some kinda goddamn sense.”

Across the parking lot, Sam came out of the convenience store, stopped dead in his tracks, and said, “Dean, holy shit, is that Bela?”

Her gun hit him as he was turning to reply, and he stumbled and fell and hit his head on the pump and felt a hideous, wrenching _crack._

 

* * *

 

This time, when he turned around and saw Bela running across the lot towards him, he had his own gun ready, and he shot her.

 

* * *

 

“You _shot_ me.”

“Well, _you_ broke my _neck!_ ”

They stared at each other in the gas station parking lot, fuming.

At least for a moment, until the pump started making a faint ticking noise and Dean said, “This has already happened, like. Five times today? Some kinda _Groundhog Day_ bullshit.”

Bela smiled weakly. “I never liked that movie.”

“Yeah, me neither. Fuckin’ creepy. If I turn around for a moment do you _promise_ not to hit me? Gotta deal with the gas.”

“I think under the circumstances I’ll wait, yes, and then maybe we can discuss this situation like civilized people.”

He blinked. “You seem more…together than you did before.”

“Well, you know.” She shrugged. “I’ve repeated this day several times already, apparently experiencing one’s own agonizing death several times in a row helps wake up the mind.”

At which point Sam’s voice cut in with, “Ok, what the fuck.”

 

* * *

 

They were at the diner again, at that same table by the window, but they’d driven there together, Bela in the back seat of the car looking lost and worried. Now her hands wrapped around her mug of coffee as if it was a lifeline, and Sam had put the curse box in the middle of the table and was trying to be patient as she said, very slowly, “I…don’t think it’s a bad thing, whatever it is.”

“How d’you figure? Generally when something makes me die over and over again I kinda assume it doesn’t like me much.” Dean took a sip of his own coffee and made a face. “Doesn’t seem like a friendly thing to do.”

“No, no, I think—I think it’s the one _saving_ me. Us. We die and it gives us a chance to restart, until I can get to where it wants me to go.”

“And where’s that?”

She reached for the box and hesitated, shying away from Sam’s hard look before resting her fingertips on one of the sigils. “I…don’t know.”

Sam’s gaze followed her fingers, his shoulders tensing as if preparing to leap should she grab it and run. His mouth was tight. “I don’t really trust you, you know. As far as I’m concerned, mostly what’s happened during this loop or whatever is you keep getting Dean killed. Also, Dean, are we _sure_ she’s not dead? She _looks_ kinda dead.”

“I don’t think that’s quite fair, he’s killed me as well.” Her mouth twitched up at the corners, just a bit, just a flash of her old self through the dirt and dishevelment and thousand-yard stare, and she caught Dean’s eye. “Fair’s fair, Dean, wouldn’t you say? Although of course maybe our little friend here is just trying to give me another chance at that angry sex I suggested to you once.”

Sam blinked. “The what?”

Dean coughed. “Can we _not_ have that conversation?”

“You should be pleased that I can make fun of you at all, I’m feeling more lucid every minute. Although I’m really not joking.”

“Ok, that is _inappropriate._ ”

“I don’t need to hear this.” Sam stuck his fingers in his ears. “I try really hard to do good things, I don’t need this kind of punishment.”

Dean elbowed him hard. “You’re not helping.”

They bought her lunch, and she ate like a starving woman, so much that the waitress stared at her and even Dean was impressed. Between bites she explained, semi-coherently, what the little box was telling her, her hands always wandering towards it as she talked. Warmth, she said, and hope, and the need to bring it somewhere, to bring it to a specific place that she could see in her mind but didn’t have words for. When she tried to tell them more about it, she got confused and lost the thread of the conversation.

They waited as she finished her food, and when they headed back to the car again, her head went up like a fox hearing the trumpeting of the hunt, and they barely had seconds before the hellhounds were on them.

 

* * *

 

 _“Omphalos,”_ she said, running across the gas station parking lot and into Dean’s arms, chest heaving with panic. “That’s what it’s called. The place. Omphalos. It’s…it’s north of here. Perhaps a bit west. I can’t give you directions, but I might be able to point it out on a map.”

“Omphalos. Got it.” Dean helped her get steady, put the gas pump back in its cradle, and cut off Sam’s approaching shock with, “Come on, Sammy, we gotta go call Bobby and find some shit out, I’ll explain in a minute. You happen to know what ‘omphalos’ means?”

 

* * *

 

 _“More Greek shit? Omphalos means ‘navel.’ It’s a kind of religious statue. Conduit for the power of the gods. Supposedly marks the center of the world, except there’s a fair few of ‘em, scattered all over.”_ Bobby sounded tired and frustrated and curious all at once. _“Why, somethin’ got you lookin’ for an omphalos? Someone mention one?”_

“Maybe.” It was Sam’s turn to hold the box, but for once he wasn’t having a hard time looking away from it, because he couldn’t take his eyes off Bela Talbot, looking dirty and ragged but way more alive than he’d ever expected to see her again. “Might have something to do with the curse box we found, I think we need to take it to one. You don’t know _where_ we could find an omphalos, do you? Like, anywhere around here?”

Rustling papers on the other end of the line, and then, _“There’s one in upstate New York, that ain’t too far from you boys right now. There’re a few on every continent, really, they’re truce zones. Although I doubt anyone’s hangin’ around the one in Antarctica except maybe a couple penguins. Nobody pulls shit near an omphalos unless they want to attract some **real** bad attention.”_

“Upstate New York lines up with what we just found out—Jesus, where the hell did they _go?_ ”

_“Where’d who go? You two hangin’ out with someone?”_

“Man, that is…that’s a really complicated question right now, Bobby, can I get back to you?”

_“Yeah, sure, just lemme give you these coordinates first.”_

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t a good first kiss.

Bela’s mouth tasted like fear, which was something Dean was all too familiar with. He knew that taste better than almost anything, acid and ash on the back of his tongue, the acrid tang of anxiety as it spread over the throat and sank into the pores. Her ragged nails dug into the back of his neck, and under his hands she felt not slim as much as starved.

But she smelled surprisingly good, her lips were still on his, the second kiss was better, and he’d died, what, four times today? Five? So fuck it.

“This is less angry then I’d imagined,” she said against his mouth.

“Yeah, well, it’s not really sex, either.”

“It can be if you like.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but aren’t we on kind of a deadline here?” He slid a hand up the back of her shirt, fingers hovering at the clasp of her bra but not quite moving forward. “Maybe after. Assuming we live. And have a condom on hand, because listen, I’m not up for that kind of—”

“Guys, what the hell are you doing, I have the—oh, goddammit.” Sam backed away from the car with one hand clapped over his eyes. “Look, I thought we were on a _deadline_ here, is this really the time for you guys to explore that whole ‘angry sex’ thing?”

“Do I _look_ angry?”

“I don’t know, I’m not looking at you. Or her. And _won’t_ be until I’m one hundred percent sure that you’re both actually dressed.”

Bela raised an eyebrow, mouth curling into a smile that looked more like _her_ than anything else Dean had seen so far in this unending repetition of the day. “I suppose you both have a point about that deadline. In fact I’m not entirely sure we haven’t passed it.” She sat back and pulled her shirt straight, staring off into the middle distance with a listening look on her face. “In fact, I’m fairly sure we have. I suppose I’ll see you two in the next loop, shall I?”

Dying almost wasn’t bad this time, knowing that they’d all be back in seconds and he and Bela, at least, would know what to do.

It felt almost hopeful.

 

* * *

 

Drying Slurpee. Crying child. Hot sun on faded pavement, and Dean caught Bela as she ran full-tilt into him and didn’t lose his footing, because he’d known she was coming. She leaned against the side of the car and caught her breath as he finished filling the tank, and as he was putting the gas cap back on and hanging up the nozzle at the pump, Sam came out of the convenience store and said, “I got barbecue chips and some kind of really gross energy ok what the hell.”

“Real long story, Sammy. Hell of a thing. I’ll explain later, we’ve gotta go somewhere. You can give Bela the chips, she’s coming with us.”

“Is there a reason you can’t explain now?”

“So you remember the Mystery Spot?”

“Don’t think I could ever forget it.”

“Apparently it’s my turn. And hers. She’s not dead.” At his look, “I am at least eighty percent sure she’s not dead. Get in the car.”

Sam let out a long sigh and handed the bag of chips to Bela, who flashed him a brief grin before getting into the back seat. He sat down in front of her, passenger’s side as always, and said, to no one in particular, “Sometimes I _really_ hate living like this. Is it the same asshole this time?”

“Not as far as I can tell. Something to do with _that_ thing,” gesturing to the curse box in his lap. “You ever heard of an omphalos?”

“…somehow I feel like I have, but I can’t remember.”

“Yeah, sounds about right. Get Bobby on the phone and ask him where the nearest one is, willya? Bela kinda knows where we’re going, but I think we need more directions than just that. Hey, Bela, where we going first?”

She looked up at him as he looked back, raised the hand that wasn’t buried in the bag of chips, and pointed. “That way. And move quickly. You know, I never liked barbecue-flavored things before, but this may be the best meal I’ve ever had.”

He drove. Sam called Bobby, argued with him for a few minutes, and finally hung up with directions, which, unsurprisingly, coordinated perfectly with Bela’s vague gut feelings about where they needed to be going. “If this gets us killed I’m gonna be pissed at both of you.”

“That’s fair. Hey, Bela, any sign of hellhounds?”

“Not that I can tell yet, I generally know when they’re getting close.”

“Ok, wait, you didn’t say anything about hellhounds being involved.”

“Swear to god, Sammy, I’ll explain everything once this is over.”

“I’m trusting you here, but for the record, in the future I feel like if there are _hellhounds_ involved you should tell me that _first._ ”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t a long drive. Near the end of it, though, they were well off the traveled highways or even the paved ones, the last stretch of the way a poorly-graded dirt road in a forest. Dean was almost, _almost_ ready to suggest that they stop for a moment when Bela sat bolt upright in the back seat and shouted, _“Drive.”_

Sam cursed and scrambled to keep the curse box from flying out of his lap, Dean slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, and the car surged forward down the increasingly bumpy track at a bone-rattling pace. Bela clung to the back of the passenger seat, knuckles white.

And after ten minutes of breathless, violent jouncing in the car, she gasped out, _“We’re here.”_

The car skidded to a stop. They all got out, unsteady, legs shaking, Bela falling to her knees on the moss-carpeted ground, and Dean stared at the egg-shaped statue in the center of the clearing they’d found themselves in and said, “So. Uh. What do we do now?”

“I. I don’t know.” Bela was flushed, fingers curling in in the moss. “It’s…it’ll be open at the top. The statue. It should be. I think we have to open the box. We have to open the box and throw it in.”

Hounds bayed in the distance, voices full of slobber and snarl and bloodlust, and Sam was saying, “We don’t have any idea what’s in this thing, we’re not opening it.”

“It’s either that or stay right here until we starve. The hunters are coming. They won’t cross the border, but they can surround us.”

“How do you even _know_ that?”

“I don’t _know,_ maybe I’ll figure it out if we _survive._ ”

Dean continued to stare at the statue for a moment and then abruptly snatched the curse box out of his brother’s hands, ignoring Sam’s startled protest. There was no visible lock, just a simple latch, but it stuck when he fumbled with it and wouldn’t open. “Fuck. _Fuck._ ” The baying was getting louder. He sniffed and caught the faint stench of unwashed dog and old blood. “Bela, it’s not opening. I don’t want to have to fucking shoot this thing open, that seems like a bad plan.”

He froze.

He could feel breath on the back of his neck. He could hear growling.

Sam was standing very still. “They’re definitely here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that they are.”

Bela took in a deep breath. “Give me the box.”

“You sure you—”

“Give it to her.” Sam sounded frightened, and angry, and also resigned. “Clearly whatever the hell’s going on, we’re not getting out of it without some kind of bullshit, and if you’re telling me right then if we die we’ll just reboot anyway. So hand it over and we’ll get this over with.”

Bela reached out with a trembling hand and took the box from Dean, as he felt another gust of hot breath on the back of his neck and heard snarling in his ear. She stumbled to her feet and to the statue, went to the latch—and it popped open in her hands as if it had never been stuck.

Hyperventilating, she slammed it into the opening at the top of the statue and

there

was

a

_light_

with a tiny pale winged thing fluttering in the center, shaky and slow and weak but holding itself up regardless and it smelled like summer and good pie and hot pavement and it rang in Dean’s ears like music and it whispered

_I am here I am here I am here have hope have hope have hope._

Bela stared up at the little fluttering thing above the omphalos with wide eyes. The light shading her face made her look somehow less gaunt, less starved and half-dead and more like the obnoxious, frustrating, deeply self-assured woman Dean remembered from before.

“Oh,” she was saying. “Oh. I see. All right.”

He couldn’t hear the snarling anymore. He couldn’t feel hot breath on his neck. He glanced up, and even Sam looked awestruck, constant worried look smoothing out into joyful calm.

“Oh,” Bela said again, “I see.”

Dean let out a long breath. “The hellhounds are gone.”

“Yes. Yes, they are.”

 

* * *

 

They drove back to the town at a much more reasonable pace than the one they’d taken to reach the omphalos. The curse box lay on the dashboard, shut tight again—the statue had spat it back out like a watermelon seed after the light had faded and the little fluttering thing had gone away, and Sam had finally had the presence of mind to take a few pictures of it and email them to Bobby with a desperate request for at least a partial translation.

In the back seat of the car, Bela sat up straighter, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. She actually looked relaxed, now. “You know, if you don’t mind going back to that diner, I think I could stand some dinner. I haven’t eaten solid food in a year, apart from those crisps earlier. A hamburger might be nice.”

“Yeah, you know what, dinner would be good.” Dean pulled into the right lane as they neared the exit for the town. “I could eat.”

 

* * *

 

At the mediocre diner, Bela ate three hamburgers and then got a milkshake, plucking the cherry from its place atop the whipped cream and popping it into her mouth with a lascivious wink at Dean. Sam covered his face with both hands. “Oh my god. Look, I’m. I’m getting my own room tonight. You two need to work out…whatever this is.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, distracted, “that might be a good idea.”

Sam’s phone chimed. Email from Bobby.

[ _Can’t figure most of it. Linear B’s not my field. Managed a bit, though._

_Says, “Made with love for Pandora.”_

_What the FUCK you boys been getting into?_ ]

Sam almost choked on his soda. “Uh. Guys. I think you need to see this, Bobby got back to me.” No answer. “Guys, seriously, you need to—” He looked up. “Oh, _goddammit,_ can you two get a room?”

**Author's Note:**

> Share and enjoy! If you liked the story, please leave me a comment!


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